


Abuse of Power

by balthesar



Category: Torchwood
Genre: BDSM, F/M, M/M, Medical Kink, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-13
Updated: 2006-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/balthesar/pseuds/balthesar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At night, Owen lies in bed and remembers the temptation, and succumbing to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abuse of Power

>   
> _I know tomorrow brings  
>  The consequence at hand  
> But I keep living this day like  
> The next will never come_   
> 

At night, Owen lies in bed and remembers the temptation, and succumbing to it.

He always remembers the hospital as he left it: the gleaming steel of polished clean instruments, the pale seafoam green walls, the crisp white of his lab coat and the sheets, the cheerful blue floral and stripes of the patient gowns. Owen remembers making his first rounds early in the morning, already bored with the routine checklists and minor complications, his brain still slightly fuzzy as the first cups of coffee worked their way into his bloodstream. Owen remembers the clinical smells vividly: aerosol antiseptic and hand soap, linens detergent, latex.

He made his first rounds before dawn, his last late at night. The massive hospital sprawled, each room holding one or two or four, the curtains ringing each bed pulled open by the night nurses. An impersonal clipboard hung off the foot of each bed. Owen still remembers a few of the names scrawled there. Jones, Kerri. Newman, Jason. Hayworth, Anna.

Not surprisingly, the few young people in hospital were greatly outnumbered by the decrepit, slowly-dying old. Perhaps that was why they caught the young doctor's eye. Perhaps. He'd never thought too hard about it, at the time or afterwards.

Owen's hand slips downward, under the quilt, as the images flash behind his eyes: the curve of her back, where the hospital gown gapped; the hungry look in his eyes as the curtains slid closed. Each time it began the same way. Owen glanced at the clipboard at the end of each bed with a detached frown, marking the routine columns.

"Kerri," he announced, _sotto voce_ , "Jason," or "Anna," as he hung the clipboard back on the peg at the end of the bed. "I think we need to consider more active treatment." He slid the curtains closed and tucked his pen back in his pocket. The nametag reading _Dr. Owen Harper_ swung as he leaned over his patient.

"Tell me, Kerri, does this hurt?" he asked, his hand cupping her barely-covered breast and pinching her nipple. A noise caught in her throat.

"I'm not sure, Doctor. Try the other one."

His fingers slide under the waistband of his boxers, the thin fabric echoing the hospital gowns that pepper his fantasies.

"This doesn't look good, Jason," Owen remarked quietly, surrounded by yards of hanging folds. Barely twenty-two, Jason had broken his scapula playing rugby; he needed close attention by his supervising physician. "I'm going to take a closer look," Owen said, his hand sliding up Jason's thigh, the gown riding up.

"Breathe in," he told Anna, "and out. Now, can you roll over?" Flipping his lab coat out of the way, Owen spread her legs, probing and stretching her open.

"Harder, Doctor," she moaned. The old people around them, outside the curtains, didn't even stir.

Owen's breath catches, as he gently wraps his fingers around his cock and slowly strokes.

He had them all, fucking them in their beds on the crisp white sheets, doubling back after his rounds before anyone else came to check. Owen remembers the rubbery smell of powdered latex, the snap of the gloves as he pulled them on for an examination, the taste of the condoms covering hot skin or the dental dams against slick flesh.

Late at night, Owen fists his cock more fiercely and fantasizes about revenge.

 

He imagines being cornered in an empty room, the vacant beds covered with fresh sheets, the IV stands against the walls. Anna stalks in, furious, her gown replaced by nurses' scrubs. Slamming the door shut behind her, hard enough to make the clipboards clatter in the racks, she advances on him, screaming about patients' rights and the bodily invasion of her privacy.

"But you liked it," Owen protests, his hands up. "You _wanted_ it." Anna keeps backing him towards the empty bed. "You _begged_ for it."

She doesn't care.

Anna plants both hands on his chest and shoves him backwards to sprawl across the bed. Owen struggles, but only manages to roll over and tangle himself in the sheets before Anna overpowers him again, locking his wrists to the thick plastic railing with buckling cuffs he didn't know she had.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he growls -- his cock twitches against his palm at the thought -- and Anna sneers.

"Just a routine examination," she replies with a cruel smirk. Anna cuts away his trousers and boxers with a pair of cold metal surgical scissors, leaving him exposed. Even in his fantasy, Owen struggles; he rubs against the rumpled white sheets, hardening despite himself. She shoves a pillow under his hips and he fears what she might do next, yanking on restraints that don't give.

Anna pulls the surgical lube from a rolling supply cart nearby. Owen yelps with dismay as slick metal presses against his anus, long and smooth, sliding into his arse. Finally, what feels like a steel rod stops, buried inches inside him. Anna turns his face towards hers with an unpleasant smile.

"I'm sorry," he begs, and he almost entirely means it.

Anna's eyebrows climb towards her hairline. "Sorry you pushed the boundaries or sorry about what's happening to you now?"

"Yes," Owen chokes out as the steel speculum expands slowly, spreading his arsehole open. He writhes a little, the ache spreading, pain and humiliation and arousal making him flush with heat.

"At least you're honest," she replies, a little disgusted, as she snaps a rubber glove on. She coats the latex in surgical lube and laughs to herself.

"Bend over and cough." Her fingers enter easily, the tines of the speculum holding him open. A mild panic floods Owen's senses as she probes and rubs his prostate; humiliation burns as he grinds against the mattress, his cock hardening with the invasion.

He's panting with reluctant need by the time she removes the speculum, though he feels no relief; her fingers stay inside him, steepled together, thrusting. He needs it, he needs more, he needs her to fucking unlock the goddamn cuffs so he can get himself off.

When she rubs more cold lube around his gaping arse, he barely considers it, his hips bucking back against her hand. She tricked him, she used him, she hates him, but he doesn't care; it's bad and good at the same time, even the pain and the stretch as she pushes her entire hand inside him. His need-drunk brain registers the sensation with animal hunger, his cock throbbing as she rubs inside him, his arse clenching around her wrist as she moves.

 

Jason's face is always covered with the paper masks you had to wear in surgery; only his flinty blue eyes are visible. He pins Owen down by sheer brute force, his big hands covering Owen's shoulders.

"Don't--" Owen warns with more authority than his situation would suppose. Jason rolls his eyes, prying Owen's mouth open the moment he speaks. With the metal spreader ratcheting his jaw open, Owen speaks only in desperate vowels.

A pile of small metal implements rest on a clean towel on a tray beside Jason; snapping on a pair of rubber gloves, he looms over Owen. Deftly, he opens Owen's shirt, jerking it down his arms, pinning them behind his back.

"Forceps," he intones, a self-satisfied smirk reaching his eyes. Owen's breath catches with apprehension, his jaw working against the metal spreader; the cool metal rings one of his nipples and he moans in the back of his throat.

"Clamps," Jason announces, reaching for the tray again. He dangles a pair of wicked-looking clamps connected by a herringbone chain in front of Owen's wild eyes before clipping one end to the forceps-held nipple. Owen thrashes, the pain nearly overcoming the pleasure. Before Owen's mind can process it, Jason pinches his other nipple with the forceps and attaches the opposite end. Owen's entire body jerks as though it were electrified. The chain hangs heavily between his aching nipples, the throbbing pain rippling straight for his cock, pressing insistently against his belly.

Jason fists his hand in Owen's brown hair, dragging him to the hard linoleum floor. He falls on his knees with a crack; his arms are tangled helplessly in his shirt and his jaw is braced open too wide to complain in words. Owen's whine is cut short as Jason unbuttons his fly, rolls on a condom -- the ubiquitous layer of latex separating flesh from flesh -- and thrusts into Owen's waiting mouth.

Owen nearly gags as Jason's thick cock bumps the back of his throat. Unable to do anything else, unable to wrap his lips around him or use his hands as a guide or suck, Owen licks the veiny underside. Jason moans and grips Owen's hair, fucking his mouth roughly. With a cry, Jason comes; Owen tastes latex and smells sweat and can barely breathe.

 

Under the white lab coat -- Owen wishes it were sheer or shorter or tighter -- he knows Kerri is naked. Her legs go on for weeks, from the hem of the coat to impossibly tall white high heels. She struts towards him, hips swaying, her long dark hair pinned back.

"I'm here to perform the procedure," Kerri says briskly, tearing open Owen's disposable paper gown, the only covering he has. She discards it behind her, grabbing a stretchy loop with an adjustable clasp.

It looks like a tourniquet to the doctor, and he says so. "I don't need that."

"Properly applied, they're relatively safe." With a menacing look, Kerri cups his balls in a rubber-clad hand. "If you fight, however..." She wraps the loop around the base of his cock and balls and cinches it tight. Owen groans, the blood rushing away from his head.

Kerri plucks a small implement off the cloth-covered tray, a shiny steel pinwheel. "How does this feel?" she asks, rolling pinpricks over his scrotum, over the sensitive underside, the pulsing veins, the swollen head of his cock. Owen moans with need, fisting his hands in the sheets. She presses a little harder and leaves trails of tiny red dots on his skin. His hips jerk and pre-come oozes from the tip.

He needs release. He needs it now. He's nearly ready to beg for release, for a fucking handjob, _anything_ , when Kerry puts the tip of a small, blunt-tipped syringe to his slit and depresses the plunger. Owen's senses explode with heat as the lube is forced inside; tightening the loop around his genitals cuts off any chance of coming yet.

"Don't thrash," Kerri instructs him with an edge of disdain, pressing the narrow tip of a long metal rod to his slit. Owen's eyes go wide with fear and lust as she slides the rod down his cock, inches of thin metal disappearing inside him. He aches with need, with the fullness of the sounding rod.

"Knees up." Owen complies, nearly insensible -- perhaps if he obeys, perhaps if he does everything right, he will be allowed to ease his nearly unbearable tension. "Good boy," she replies perfunctorily, sliding a small tube into his anus. For several seconds, Kerri does nothing; the tube stays there, the rod doesn't move, she doesn't tighten the ring. Owen breathes more easily for a moment, until he feels the rush of warm liquid in his arse. Moaning, he writhes against the sheets. It sloshes around inside him, is sucked back out and bursts into him again. The sensation burns across his brain; Kerri reaches between his legs and starts stroking his cock, hard and fast. It's so much, it's too too much. She slides the rod out, inch by inch, and the liquid bursts inside him again, and she gives him permission.

 

Owen comes suddenly over his stomach, making a mess of his boxers and the sheets and the duvet, whiting out as he succumbs to temptation. He rests his hand on his stomach, breathing deeply, as his bones melt away.

 

Why the hell was it the bad ideas that always got him off the hardest? Owen let out a long sigh. Abusing his power had been intoxicating, but the consequences hitting him like a train would be among the worst things to ever happen to him. _Fuck, I probably deserve it_ , Owen thought.

He glanced around. His limbs felt heavy and moving seemed like too much effort. _I just changed these sheets_ , Owen thought with mild irritation at his short-sightedness. Still, it had seemed worth it at the time. It always seemed worth it, at the time.


End file.
